


out of the blue like the gentlest of storms

by moranice



Series: Children Of The Sun [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Dreams, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Introspection, Porn with Feelings, Sassy K-2SO, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Slice of Life, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moranice/pseuds/moranice
Summary: “Are you sure?” she checks in, her courteous concern making his heart skip a beat or two. “It’s a lot of trust to give,” Jyn adds knowingly, a warrior, a soldier, a survivor.“I have plenty to spare,” Cassian replies, lifting a hand to caress it soothingly down her side and settle it on her waist. “And I―” he murmurs in a quieter, slightly feistier tone, “blame you for it.”Or alternatively: a lone wolf of a rebel spy has caught an incurable case offeelingsand can’t help but keep reflecting on what it means to share a life with Jyn Erso.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso
Series: Children Of The Sun [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1233785
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	out of the blue like the gentlest of storms

**Author's Note:**

> Or, this is a story about a perpetually-baffled Cassian who discovers a kink he never thought he had on top of everything else he's learning with Jyn. :D
> 
> With this story I'm apparently channeling my inner George Lucas and writing parts of the series out of chronological order. There are references here that might be familiar to those who read other stories in the series, but I've tried my best to make sure this can also be satisfying as a standalone thing.

* * *

_He knows he’s dreaming because he remembers this place differently. Last time he’d been here, he wasn’t tall enough to reach higher than four rows of shelves from the ground-up; they still tower over him, but his perspective is now that of a man rather than of a child. He doesn’t shiver with cold here either, even if he wears only a thin shirt and a leather jacket on his shoulders._

_If only his dreams fell apart the moment he was onto them, he might have been―well, perhaps not a happier man, but definitely a slightly less haunted and exhausted one for sure._

_There’s no blood, no destruction, no death in this dream ―_ so far _, croons sinuously a cold, dark voice at the back of his mind ― and his first instinct naturally is to somehow get away from it._

_It’s rare that any of his dreams are kind. If some of them are ― he usually remembers mere glimpses of them if anything at all, and he’s not a fan of this joke whatsoever. A lot of them start out horribly from the very start, twists of consciousness rooted in his past and knowledge of just how ghastly the galaxy can be, and most are like anoobas pretending to wear an innocent nerf’s skin only to shed it in the most devastating of ways, toying with him out of cruel spite like a hope given and then inevitably snatched away from a slave._

_(Frankly, he prefers to sleep without dreams at all, but what he wishes for and what he gets are oftentimes things on drastically-opposite sides of a spectrum._

_His life has shifted quite recently, yes, and that ratio has indeed gone up. Still, he doesn’t trust that yet in full. He might never trust that fully ever, but that’s a headache for another time.)_

_And so he tries to break the cycle. Any dream is a construct of his own mind, so technically it means he’s capable of being both a driver and a passenger in it. The question is whether one of the roles will be willing to budge. He can’t seem to force his legs to stop carrying him through it on their own accord, so instead he imagines not the next room, but the safety of Jyn’s―kark,_ their _ship waiting for him beyond the door._

_No such luck. The room he walks into is a carbon copy of the previous one, save for colors and details in the background differing slightly. And no, it’s not a trap ― this is nothing more than a precise recollection of a perfect memory._

_All right then, time for more drastic measures. He manages to stop once, long enough to take a bracing breath, curl his fingers into a fist, and smash it against the cold metal of the table’s edge. Pain radiates up his fingers and knuckles like a tremoring lick of molten lava, makes the light blink in the corners of his eyes. Skin splits from the impact and starts weeping blood._

_It’s an interesting thing, synergy between mind and body. Today it’s not on his side, for the dream goes on, as stubborn as a coursing mountain river._

_He resigns himself to the fate of seeing this play out to the end, however bitter it’s going to turn out. At least it’s one of the kinder center stages for a dream._

_After all, Festian Sanctuary Library is somewhat of a maze, but it’s a maze he knows by heart and loves utterly still, more than twenty years since he’d last set foot in it._

_He slips into the last spacious hall for visitors, a three-level space surrounded by walls with their entirety covered by books. Proper light in this hall is as dimmed as it was in the previous two, stylish lamps with_ nalani _crystals softly illuminating the space instead, tables with bookends and built-in sensor-paneled computers and holo-projectors stand oddly lonely without visitors behind them ― must be the evidence of a late night settling over Fest. The only colors in the halls mostly light and dark grey by design are those of books and plenty of vibrant bag chairs littering the space for a more laid-back reading session._

_The quiet loneliness of a place usually abuzz with mostly whispered words and people neither bothers him nor fills him with dread. He did love it like this the most, a child with a privilege to see more of this building than most people ever got to experience unless they have requested a tour, a child who truly relished in the sense of privacy shared by people who came here to read in peace and quiet, surrounded by thoughtful company and knowledge new and ancient._

_He walks past the nook in the very corner of the last hall where a beautiful lamp in form of a weeping tree slants over an emerald-colored bag chair, but slows down a little as he passes it, eyes lingering on his favorite spot in entire building, a spot where he’d spent hours upon hours in peaceful near-solitude, enthralled by adventures he held upon his palms in old-fashioned paper tomes once he learned how to read as early as at four._

_(Datapads and holos are incredibly practical things, yes. But he does miss the weight of books in his hands and their smell ― paper and ink and a soft whiff of something he associates with passing of time.)_

_No one ever stopped him when he sneaked behind a librarian’s counter at the edge of the hall and headed deeper into the building, and there’s no one around to stop him now. He can’t help it, he grins mischievously to himself just like he did years upon years ago, and tugs at the right book upon the shelf._

_All the librarians he ever knew on Fest were nerds with affinity to liking cool things, and so the shelf-door swings open like it always did and invites him to the heart of the library most visitors never get to see. This is the simplest system of those chambers (there are others: caverns of storage rooms deep underground where the library’s digital realm reigns, a high-security zone where ancient tomes are stored, and a series of chambers where the oldest, most fragile of books are preserved), but it’s the one he loves the most, for he’s free to run around it. He always felt small here, but in the best of ways, never intimidated by the sheer amount of memories and information and creativity these chambers hosted, only mesmerized._

_Soft light comes alive in tune with him crossing one corridor after another, slipping from a room to a room. Shapes of every chamber vary, landscape of Festian mountains bordering the capital dictating the building’s complicated outline. The library is a majestic place, the heart of Festian history and knowledge, an ongoing, ever-expanding ode to architectural artistry that’s never been what Fest is famous for with its strictly utilitarian, simple buildings erected with sheer practicality in mind._

_(That wasn’t the case on Ateral in its prime, no, but a nation reduced to refugees and former slaves didn’t exactly have a lot of resources to indulge in artistry when they colonized Fest.)_

_The chamber he finds himself in at last was the end of the library once upon a time, watching over the capital from the hills like a beacon. Inside it’s a circular space with a gradual curving staircase, fifty meters below and above ground from its center encased by shelves where Festian librarians had stored all the books they could find written by people of Aterali and Festian blood that didn’t need special conditions to store them in for preservation purposes._

_(There wasn’t enough free space in the chamber for years. The library has expanded farther away from it in the last couple of centuries, halls stretching deeper into the mountain valley to make space for new things. Once this tower started filling up, work on a new one began. A twin of the chamber stood halfway up behind the existing one, waiting to rise and be filled in centuries to come._

_When that tower had risen at last, it wasn’t a Festian library anymore, but a new home to Imperial headquarters, a black aberration upon Fest’s snow-white hills.)_

_He walks down the forty-fifth turn the staircase makes, looping around the tower, and his heart skips a beat. He closes his eyes, unwilling to open them and see that brief glimpse he’d just caught turn into a nightmare that must be waiting for him at the end, and savors the memory as his legs keep guiding him down, down, until at last something in his soul wills him to stop._

_Maybe it’s his mind playing tricks of him, placing a vision into his dream that really isn’t there. Maybe it is truly better off this way._

_Hope ― what a strange, sometimes tenderly-violent concept._

_He doesn’t know for how long he just stands there, heart hammering in his chest like wings of a frightened bird, a familiar scent of mint and cinnamon tea making him feel like home so cruelly and kindly, but he opens his eyes at last._

_Mayte Nava Abrenas-Andor is alive before him, looking just like he remembers her the most ― young in an adult way and radiant, full of life, wearing her favorite set of clothes in the last year of her life or so, never afraid of Festian cold and navigating it with style that suited her personality like a charm._

_Her high, laced boots the color of rare summer Festian sun contrast with black, perfectly-fitted leggings. A dark medallion in a form of an animal’s claw rests upon a simple grey sweater that highlights her frame instead of concealing it. Her raven hair barely reaches her chin, with most of it gathered by the right side of her face and revealing small, intricate braids by her left temple with bright yellow threads woven into them. Simple rings adorn her fingers, all delicately-shaped silver with no gemstones, and her nails are short and customarily painted black. The skimboard she uses to rush around the library in search of books for visitors as she listens to music and always hums in tune with it under her breath rests against the balustrade casually by her side._

_The curve of her smile is familiar to him too ― it’s the expression she used to gift him and Elajes Reald Andor most of the times she has ever laid her eyes on them._

_The thing is ― he rarely ever dreams of his family. When he does, it’s usually of the sight of Elajes being gunned down during the protest against allowing the Republic to establish a military base on Fest before his eyes. Yes, it’s Andor blood that was first to ever be spilled by Festian police officers who decided to serve the government and not the nation, who used force against the activists._

_(His people won that battle. The officers were identified and imprisoned, the government officials who gave the order to use force were caught by the military siding with people when they tried to flee once they realized what a dire mistake they have made. It should have been the end of the most shameful page in Festian history after his people left Ateral in search of a new home, but the Republic didn’t want to let the Confederacy of Independent Systems take control of Fest. War had come to Fest, and the dark times are still in full blossom.)_

_Mayte. He doesn’t really know how she died. One moment they were escaping a city torn apart by the war together, chaos of a battle all around them, and the next a series of explosions roared behind them. He heard her screaming to him ―_ run, love! _― even through the ringing in his ears, and he listened like a child who trusted his mother without reservations. He got up, didn’t mind the ache in his body caused by the fall thanks to the explosion’s physical echo, and ran. He’d never seen her again, never dared to look back. When he stumbled, his tiny legs unable to hold him anymore, an armed Festian rebel picked him up amongst the roar of blaster fire and erupting bombs and carried him all the way into the mountains as his insurgent cell was forced to retreat._

_Sometimes in his dreams she falls because of a blaster shot, sometimes that explosion throws her into the building and she doesn’t move again after, sometimes rubble buries her alive and sometimes she desperately tries to catch up with him only to collapse from her wounds. He’d seen people dying those ways and many more of others. He’d seen her dying in his dreams more time than he can count._

_To see her like this, unburdened yet by losses and galactic cruelty, it’s a gift he doesn’t really trust. He’s too afraid to reach out or even to make a sound, unwilling to risk this memory turning into ruin the moment he does, and so he slowly, quietly rests his forearms against the balustrade, rests his weight upon then by slightly leaning forward as he mirrors Mayte’s pose, and follows the direction of her gaze down to the tower’s lowest level. Anything to let this moment drag on for a little while more in kindness._

_There, her scene surrounded by books, Jyn Erso dances._

_Well, she fights, but without Chirrut Îmwe_ _to accompany her like he did in real life, her every move looks even more like a fierce, unforgiving dance of a battle against invisible shadows. It stole his breath away the moment he laid his eyes on her then, swirling in this exact deadly and precise geometry of controlled violence back during their fateful visit to Lira San ― a visit that had seen their relationship experience a seismic shift and introduce a sweet variable of sexual intimacy at last into it ― and it sure does the trick now again._

_(Baze finds him like that, stunned by the scene unfolding before him and, quite honestly, speechless. Despite everything he had seen a fair share of beautiful things in his life, but very little of them speak to him like anything related to Jyn. He’s all yearning and fear, bewilderment and strange kind of elated light coursing through his veins, and he doesn’t remember feeling his very soul so wound up and alive―_

_Yes, the answer is definitely_ ever _._

_Baze sits down by his side, swings his legs off the hanging wooden bridge and leans upon the vines before him with his arms. For most of the sparring session the older man is quiet, eyes following Jyn’s and Chirrut’s every movement and trick with a warrior’s appreciative, concentrated focus._

_Then he notices in his peripheral vision that Baze smiles sympathetically._

_“It’s hard when they’re so bright,” the Guardian turned Soldier turned Assassin turned Rebel and now turned Guardian again says under his breath to his ears only. “They never truly burn you, no. It’s quite the opposite ― we’re afraid we’ll smother that wonderful flame of theirs with who and how we are. So let me give you an advice once, Captain. Living a shadow next to their fire doesn’t ever stop feeling complicated. It does get easier though. But only if you let it.”)_

_Jyn hasn’t left him ―_ yet _, croons the thrice-damned voice again, but this time he dismisses it ― and so it’s easier to take in her deadly dance of feral but elegant fury. She’s agile and sharp like a vornskr on a prowl, practical and biting just like Saw Gerrera taught her. It’s the sight he could watch for ages, and since he has no illusions that the galaxy will ever let him have that luxury, he lets himself take it all in, etch it into his memory one more time._

_A warm weight settles upon his hand. He flinches beneath it, a nauseating cold wave of fear and revulsion roiling in his stomach like a storm. His skin feels slick and warm with blood. When he looks down, he sees it dripping upon the light-grey floor of the staircase by his boots, deep crimson gleaming in the lights, pulsing like a dying heart exposed. It’s not Mayte’s blood. No, this one is―_

_―not_ his _either, no. The skin he’d split by his attempt to escape the dream is all smooth as if it had never bled (and it bled, oh it bled, he wears faint scars across those knuckles to prove it), and Mayte is touching his other hand anyway. No, it’s the blood he’d spilled._

_For a noble cause, for hope, for freedom, but that doesn’t matter, doesn’t negate any of his sins. Some of it he yearned to spill, yes, but most of it he loathes with every fiber of his damn, tattered heart._

_Mayte doesn’t seem phased by it. And why would she, really? She had never lived to see it, after all ― him growing up into a soldier, a spy, a killer. She’d seen him throwing rocks at the enemies, is all. Never seen him throw bombs as easy as those rocks, never seen him pull a trigger of a blaster first to save his own life amid the wasteland of Festian mountains and coat the brilliant white snow with blood, never seen him slip a blade between a man’s ribs, slit another’s throat, and walk away from that carnage without granting it as little as a second glance._

_She can’t possibly know the darkness her son carries upon him and within him, sometimes phantom and sometimes bright as day._

You wouldn’t smile to me then. Wouldn’t ever want to touch me _, whispers that cold voice again at the back of his mind, and this time he’s helpless to ignore it._

_She meets his eyes at last with kind wonder dancing in their depth. He’d got his eyes from her, and if once upon a time he was a little mad for not inheriting his father’s steel-grey irises in favor of this dull, dark brown color, now he wonders if they still truly mirror hers with all they’ve had to see._

_Mayte brushes her thumb against his knuckles like she often used to do when she needed to reassure him as a kid and, her smile twisting into a fond, knowing smirk, looks back down the tower, just as mesmerized by the woman dancing there as she was by Elajes singing her favorite songs to her in the quiet evenings they’ve spent by the crackling fire of a hearth in their living room._

_He closes his tear-stained eyes and simply breathes, his hand trembling underneath hers ― warm, alive, if only for a little while at the back of his mind._

_Darkness beneath his eyelids deepens, thick as tar and promising nothingness. The weight of Mayte’s hand upon his fades away._

_“Don’t go,” he whispers a plea in spite of his fears and sins, ache of love and loss knotting his heart with barbed razors._

_He’s unable to hold on to her._

* * *

First thing Cassian feels when he wakes up is the faint taste of salt in the corner of his mouth. His eyes are damp when he opens them and his heart is racing like a speeder on a marathon race, but other than that he’s―

―safe and comfortable, yeah, that’s about right.

Sure, he has a complicated relationship with emotions and waking up in tears isn’t remotely close to one of his favorite pastimes, but he’s grateful for this dream and how easily his memory retains it with acute detail. He isn’t gasping ― desperately, almost soundlessly ― like he oftentimes does when wrenched out of a nightmare, he isn’t trembling and shivering in cold sweat; the room around him is all soft darkness with gentle emerald light streaming from tiny lamps across the wall, Jyn’s datapad on a shelf to her left plays a wordless orchestral melody in quiet, tender notes, the bed is warm and cozy and feels nice to his back ― neither too hard nor too soft ― and Jyn is soundly asleep, her back and arse and leg pressed against the side of his body.

He breathes out and turns his head a little, reaches out his arm from over his head slow and stealthy ― karking Force forbid he wakes Jyn up with this ― towards the shelf at his right to tap at the datapad’s standby button. His eyebrows arch up in honest bewilderment and he blinks twice in rapid succession. No, he’s seeing that right, it’s almost midday. He’d slept for nine straight hours.

The last time he’d slept so much without an injury putting him out of commission was―

A smile tugs at his lips involuntarily and the warmth of Jyn’s body against his own, dressed only in his boxes briefs, is suddenly as poignant as a stray ray of sunlight caressing bare skin. Yeah, last time he’d slept so much was darn three weeks ago after they’ve spent an hour sparring in the gym and then retreated into this same bedroom to entertain themselves with hours worth of sex, interrupting for small breaks to recover and with Jyn determined to finish reading out loud the lamest, most embarrassing raunchy novel she must have dug up from the deepest pits of HoloNet.

(His abdominal muscles were sore for hours the next day from all the laughing he had to endure. It wasn’t the feeling he’d ever knew before and, quite frankly, it’s something he’d be down to experience again.)

His gaze gravitates towards Jyn as inevitably as a particle crossing a black hole’s event horizon. She’s breathing slow and measured against him, body utterly relaxed. Her hair is spilled over her head upon the pillow like a wild halo; it’s a miracle, really, that none of it is tickling Cassian’s face ― he’d woken up from that quite a number of times and he’s perfectly kriffing happy with it. He chuckles near-soundlessly when he spots the sight of Jyn’s pale, bare foot sticking from out of the bedsheet her lower body is covered by, her toes hanging over the mattress’ edge. There’s softness to Jyn in this calm mundanity, something he’s sure no one is able to imagine when they see her violently dancing her way through enemy ranks like a force of nature.

How the kriffing Sith this keeps happening to him?

It’s still new, this strange, unlikely life of his. Most of his life has always been somewhat predictable: wars, duties, spy missions as frequent desserts on the menu of his days. The first seismic shift he had ever experienced was the Clone Wars ― losing his family abruptly, getting tangled in the war’s embrace until there was very little left of an innocent kid he had once been.

And then Jyn ― vibrant and loud in perfect ways and seemingly inevitable like a crack of lightning in a storm ― tore through his life, had shattered his every mask and let him gather back the most vital of them, ruined the grey routine of his life and somehow beckoned him to rearrange it.

(He doesn’t quite know when his little universe fell apart under her gentle assault. Most likely it’s the sum of it all, of everything they’ve ever been through together, but he secretly thinks that the last of his guards on the way to just wanting her ― that fierce light, her presence, the undying hope he’d been so lacking in the dark tones of the war he walked mostly alone ― was that smile she had revealed to him when he shot the caped bastard atop of the Scarif vault. It hurt, that smile. Not like every breath he took with broken ribs, not like lava searing down the very marrow of his spine, not like the blaster wound burned into his body by Krennic’s weapon, no. It wasn’t physical, really, that pain. It was a desperate chant of heart and soul alike set ablaze with boundless emotion. He wasn’t aware before that it’s possible to crave something, someone, a future so much and feel so completely, devastatingly undeserving of it, but there he was.

Throughout the entirety of his life after the Clone Wars, through every injury and hurt and dire situation his story was this: _I have to live because my work’s not done_. On Scarif and on the shuttle that took them back to Yavin 4, half-cognizant in immense agony of staying alive, he wanted to live because he simply wanted more time with Jyn, whichever way she’ll allow him to keep drifting in her orbit.)

They live together for almost a year at this point, are lovers for near-six months. The ship carrying them upon the currents of hyperspace ― _the Reckless_ , Jyn stated, a knowing smirk playing tricks in the corners of her mouth and those stardust eyes of hers glinting with pride ― is the closest place Cassian ever thought to call home for thirteen weeks now.

(Yes, he’s counting, there’s nothing he can do with how his brain is keen to analyze everything. And if he’s counting to treasure every moment, to never take them for granted, well, the sentiment’s worth it.)

To this day it surprises him just how both odd and seamless it feels to have Jyn with the Alliance, with him, in his bed ― he closes his eyes, a memory of how she had challenged him with almost exact same words unraveling softly and clearly as if it happened mere moments ago ― how it’s the most pleasant of shocks every step of the way.

The thing is, Cassian didn’t use to daydream like this at all. Most days his hope for something other than living another day and giving his all to bring the Alliance one step closer to defeating the Empire was so bleak it could as well be non-existent. Focusing on what he was feeling and dissecting that to examine it properly felt like slicing himself open and inevitably invited even more nightmares in. No, he quickly understood that he was better off and safer and more useful to everyone spending every minute of his waking days thinking of the cause, a mission, of any potential leads. He had dedicated himself all but fully to the fight, in any shape or form he could.

And here he is, letting his thoughts flow free and rummage through his soul, lounging in bed long past the time he should’ve been awake and making himself useful.

It’s easy to blame the mission he’d just returned from for it. It’ll be totally understandable that his mind would latch on to a moment of rest it had been in dire need for with such ravenous hunger.

Some of the blame can flow that way, sure.

But mostly this is him.

His new reality.

Jyn wiggles against him a little and he holds his breath, his mind snapping into utter focus on her. She doesn’t seem to be waking up ― she shifts her arm more comfortably underneath the pillow, frees even more of her right leg from underneath the bedsheet. The quiet, content sigh she huffs through her nose as she settles still coincides with a small break between the melodies, and it takes Cassian the entirety of his patience not to turn her way to kiss the crown of her head affectionately.

There’s time for soft intimacy of touches and there’s time for uninterrupted sleep; he’s sure Jyn appreciates him being considerate about both.

Daydreaming it is, then.

(That cold, dark voice of guilt at the back of his mind is utterly, peacefully silent.)

* * *

The situation, ungracefully speaking, kriffing sucks.

Losing a shipment of new (well, new only in their official belonging to a rebel cause) X-wing starfighters the Alliance needs so much in transit to the cause hurts, sure. But it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as learning the hardest of ways that the birds have been intercepted by the Imps and were used to almost fully decimate an entire rebel squadron. Amidst a space skirmish between the two forces enemy pilots came to aid, wearing rebel skins, shot their own people in order to win the Alliance’s trust, and turned it against rebel pilots. A few escaped. Too many have lost their lives.

Now that the element of surprise is busted, it’ll be harder for the Imps to pull off the same trick again with the same efficiency, but they’re still dangerous like that. The High Command gathers a small briefing between Intelligence and Starfighter Corps, the number of attendants strictly limited to personnel essential to investigating and taking measures to somehow sort out this clusterfuck.

“Our advance in the Outer Rim is forcing the Empire to get more creative, experiment with tactics,” states Draven, expression troubled by his standards ― his frown is deeper than usual, jaw slightly tenser.

Cassian glances at Wedge Antilles; the Commander of Rogue Squadron holds his gaze and Cassian tilts his chin down in a tiny nod. He’d spent hours with Jyn, Kay, and Antilles, reviewing the footage and mission reports, and the conclusion they’ve all arrived to isn’t particularly hopeful.

Wedge chews on his bottom lip, speaks up. “Everything points to the Empire giving the T-65’s they’ve hijacked to a group of carefully selected ace pilots. Might even be an ISB or Imperial Intelligence or Special Forces initiative, given that they were treating other Imperial pilots like pawns they can easily sacrifice. This is the tightest I’ve seen their formations fly in a long time, they’re accurate and skilled and equally creative to our best. Most of us are used to fly against shield-less TIE’s; it certainly was jarring for the pilots to suddenly adapt their tactics to machines similar to ours. All the training, simulators, we’ve prepared differently.” Commander Antilles takes a deep breath, looks at Admiral Ackbar. “We need to adapt our simulators and train pilots to fight against our own machines in order not to be caught off-guard like this again. And we need to hunt down this particular Imperial squadron before it claims even more of our pilot’s lives.”

The Mon Calamari Admiral slowly shifts his gaze from Cassian to Jyn to Kay (sulking in the corner with his arms crossed against his chassis, blessedly keeping his vocoder silent), and stops at last at General Draven. “I take it you have a plan, General, given that _Team Fulcrum Alpha_ is here in its entirety?”

“ _We_ do, Admiral,” states Davits Draven and beckons Jyn to come forward with a small tilt of his head to a side.

While Cassian and Wedge and Kay were busy with the footage, Jyn had spent her time in the same room with her datapad, maps, and nagging her underworld contacts for every bit of information on missing starfighters. Cross-referencing all the information that she had on her hands, it’s her who made the assumption about potential leads at finding the enemy squadron.

She lays down the plan agreed between _Team Fulcrum Alpha_ and Antilles, and then approved by General Draven.

The High Command gives it a green light.

And so the time has come to dig up Imre Willix’s ISB uniform out of the drawer and claw the thrice-damned cover out of a dark, miserable corner of Cassian’s mind.

* * *

It’s an hour before touchdown. Cassian is naked, soaking under the water, and his mind is far away. Eyes closed, forehead and palms pressed towards the slightly warm tiles of the ‘fresher, his focus is not on the way warm water slants down his skin in rivulets, but on distant muscle memory of Imre’s gait, on the bastard’s trademark stony expressions interchanged strategically with smiles and smirks cutting like vibroblades when they’re needed, on his crisp Core Worlds accent and polite speaking manner that’s no warmer than glaciers on Fest, on the look in his eyes that makes people uncomfortable, beckons them to try hard not to flinch away, on the bastard’s way of thought.

Imre Willix isn’t exactly a normal human being. In biology and appearance, yes, but certainly not in his mindset. He’s a calculated kind of a fanatic, perfectly satisfied to be a cog in an Imperial machine installed to ensure that it functions perfectly, a tool of controlling excellence.

He’s not the cover Cassian hates the most ― the amount of despicable things he’d done in Willix’s skin isn’t that staggering, although it does have a fair share of them ― but the bastard’s high up on that wretched list.

Mindful of time’s passing, Cassian turns off the water, gets out of the ‘fresher, wraps a towel around his hips. He swipes the side of his hand gently against the mirror to see his reflection more or less clearly, lets his other hand linger for a moment on his slightly unkempt facial hair.

His mind is halfway into Imre already and will be there fully by the time he lands on the Imperial base, ready to gamble his life again as he gets to access classified files under the guise of a security inspection. It’s time to sacrifice Cassian’s appearance for the bastard too.

The door to the ‘fresher opens the moment he lays a hand upon his shaving gel. Jyn slips into the steam-filled room and closes the door behind her. She’s clad in―

Cassian narrows his eyes, his thoughts of Imre Willix scattering like pieces of a torn pearl necklace upon slick metal floor. Yes, this is certainly an undershirt he wore not even twenty minutes ago and that he left in their bedroom. And yes, he’s dead sure that Jyn is absolutely naked underneath it, given that he can see the outline of her peaked nipples faintly through the thin black fabric enveloping her breasts in a very distracting manner and already knows her habits in the safeness of their ship.

His mouth is suddenly gone all dry and he feels the moment his pulse spikes up at the realization.

Jyn stands right next to the door, hands loose by her sides. She biting into her cheek, which means she’s uncertain and battling a dilemma of her own despite dressing so boldly and barging into the ‘fresher with a very specific intent, and her green eyes are both soft and fierce when she dares to meet his gaze.

This is _not_ how a preparation for his undercover missions had ever gone.

Then again, a lot of things in his life are new ever since he decided to follow Jyn Erso and welcomed her home.

Storms help him.

A part of his brain protests against this, terrified of a familiar routine Jyn has just broken. The protest is a mere whisper at the very edge of his awareness, though. He sees Jyn’s throat bobbing when she swallows, her jaw tightening a little as she makes a choice. She crosses the remaining distance between them slowly, giving him time to decide what he wants and ready to walk away if she’ll be rejected.

He doesn’t break eye contact once and she stops right next to him. When her fingertips find his hand, now loose by his side too, he shivers slightly at the slide of her fingers down his palm and slots their fingertips together to reassure her. The corners of Jyn’s mouth twitch with a ghost of an uncertain smile. She glances meaningfully at the shaving gel he’s still touching, down at the razor next to it. Licking the seam of her lips and lingering a little to bite at them, she lifts her other hand up between their bodies and strokes her fingertip reverently down the beard across his jawline.

His skin feels hot and flares up with a flush in an instant, even before Jyn speaks up. “May I?” she requests his permission quietly, her voice as unsteady as the first time she has ever asked him whether she could put her mouth on him and bring him pleasure that way. 

His body responds to the memory of her mouth around him ― one thought, he mostly needs a single thought of her to start getting aroused, and he’s still not quite used to this ― and the mere idea of having her slide a razor down his neck is―merciful snowstorms, it’s not something he ever thought he could fathom experiencing, but now it’s a fantasy he can’t get out of his head.

He knows, well, maybe not all but more than enough about cold violence of blades. He’d used one to torture a man for hours back when he served under Admiral Grendreef, his Imperial mentor watching him expectantly all throughout. He’d ended lives with a knife or vibroblade not once and not twice. He’d felt the thin, but keen fire of pain as one slid down his shoulder blade in a fight where he had to prove himself and earn his place in a Coruscant’s underworld gang, having only his own body to use against an opponent who wielded a dagger. 

He should feel worry, fear, even, at the thought of giving someone wielding a sharp blade in their hands such intimate access to his body, but he’s not. The guarded thorns usually protesting fiercely against every kind of vulnerability are absolutely dormant in his mind. He thinks of this because it’s logical and practical, not because his emotions and survival instincts prompt him to.

This is Jyn. It figures that she’s the one to dismantle even whispers of mistrust in his brain. What’s one more boundary lain down on an altar before her, knowing that she’ll take paramount care of it? 

“Yes,” Cassian tells her, uncaring of how shaky the single syllable rolls off his tongue.

His breath catches at the sight of Jyn’s relieved, joyous smile, the scattering of stars in her eyes seemingly glittering brighter than they ever did.

* * *

He sits down upon the lid of a laundry container in the corner of the ‘fresher, its metal carcass more than sturdy to bear his weight, spreads his legs to give Jyn space to work, rests his hands on his knees, and waits. Her eyes are all keen, business-like focus now, her hands gentle but methodical at spreading the shaving gel around his mouth, jaw, and neck.

It’s a little odd, to feel the razor slide up his chin and jaw when he’s not the one guiding it. His brain remembers the sensation, but without muscle memory of his own hand wielding a razor something doesn’t quite feel right. But it doesn’t feel bad either, not at all. Jyn watched him shave ― not fully, of course ― not once and not twice at his point, and she mimics his every motion perfectly as if she had committed them to memory with reverence. The razor is sure and steady in her hands, she rinses it just on time, her fingertips are touching his chin lightly, and the serious attention in her eyes is―

All right, he can admit this silently to himself at least, this makes his mind respect and revere Jyn, and sets his body aflame with desire in a way he never quite knew before. So much so that it feels a little bit torturous that she’s still not done with her task and he can’t arch his hips up into her clever hand instead to feel relief at her touch.

By the time Jyn gently tilts his chin up to get better access to his throat and neck, Cassian decides that he can put this particular trust between them to the very last, ultimate test. As Jyn rinses the blade one more time, he swallows quietly, angles his head back even more, and lets his eyelids flutter closed.

Instead of sliding the razor up the side of his throat, she cups the side of his face with her damp palm, her thumb brushing soft and tender against the thin skin beneath his eye. “Are you sure?” she checks in, her courteous concern making his heart skip a beat or two. “It’s a lot of trust to give,” Jyn adds knowingly, a warrior, a soldier, a survivor.

“I have plenty to spare,” Cassian replies, lifting a hand to caress it soothingly down her side and settle it on her waist. “And I―” he murmurs in a quieter, slightly feistier tone, “blame you for it.”

The sound of her slightly startled, but delicate chuckle resonates just as beautifully as notes Elajes used to coax out of his hallikset in Andor household’s living room. No, come think of it, it’s even lovelier. Not to put down his father’s musical prowess in any way, storms forbid maiming his memory so crudely and carelessly, but the notion that he’s the one making Jyn laugh like this touches some very specific strings of joy and pride in his soul.

(It’s a pattern with her, isn’t it? Discovering more and more things about himself in the process of letting her establish herself as in integral part of his life?)

Jyn slides her fingers slightly aside and higher, scratching them lightly over his ear, bends to press a kiss to his forehead, and shifts away to finish what she’d started. Breath stills in his lungs at the sensation of her sliding the razor up his throat. He almost trembles from the sheer force of the feeling, from not seeing her hands wield the blade, but holds himself in check, only his fingers clamping tight into his knees. There’s this special, exquisite intimacy to offering himself like this to her, and it banishes the phantom of worry and fear that managed to crystallize at the back of his mind thanks to willingly giving up his vision immediately.

He breathes out and feels tension in his muscles unravel in tune with it. Jyn’s every motion puts him even closer to a state of peace. By the time she’s done with grooming him, his body is utterly relaxed, save for a very specific point of throbbing tension down his groin, and now it’s his turn to chuckle in shy bewilderment at this very peculiar contrast.

Jyn wets a small towel, wipes away the remains of gel and small dark hairs from his skin, and sets on to examine her handiwork by sliding her fingers against every inch of his normally-bearded face and neck with the same focus she typically reserves for sharpening her collection of knives and vibroblades. It’s tender, but distracting, and he does his best to keep his breathing more or less controlled. At last, seemingly satisfied, Jyn brushes her fingertips against his lips, winds her arms around his neck, and lets her fingers sift through his damp hair absent-mindedly. Cassian opens his eyes to find her looking at him, and her expression puzzles him somewhat. The curve of her lips is a little displeased, her eyes serious with a restless kind of somberness.

It feels a little bit out of place in this beautiful world of safeness she had guided him into so expertly.

He arches an eyebrow at her, brushes the back of his index finger up the lean ladder of her ribcage. She huffs a frustrated breath through her nose, and gives in. “I know that you can handle this mission and I know that the part me and Kay will play is important. But I hate that you’re going into that pit of snakes alone, that I can’t have your back should the need for it arise.”

He’d spent years working mostly solitarily in the field. There was Kay, yes, and an occasional intelligence asset to assist him should a mission’s parameters warrant that kind of setup, but he’s used to be perfectly self-sufficient. In all honesty, most of the times that was exactly what he preferred. Just him and an objective, rely on himself only, have no additional variables to consider or people to worry about. A simple equation, a single asset lost should things burn up in flames of failure. That kind of knowledge used to bring him comfort.

It baffles him how easy Jyn had settled into his life, changed up its routine in a way that made him truly appreciate this shift. Not a missing puzzle piece, she is, but a complimentary phenomenon, a variable he never knew he needed until she got under his skin and carved herself a home somewhere along the scars upon his heart and somehow made sure it didn’t really hurt one bit, not like it was supposed to when old ways die in order to make space for something new.

Cassian sneaks a hand underneath the undershirt she’d stolen, slides his palm up the bare skin of her back. “If it’s any consolation, I’d prefer to have you with me too,” he confesses because it’s true. He’ll hate that it would force her to see him wear Willix’s persona, that he’ll be incredibly far away from her even if they’re close. Honestly, he’ll probably handle all of that poorly, for a mere idea of being in Imre’s skin before her eyes roils up a cold bile of revulsion in his gut.

But a luxury of waking up with her, maybe that is worth enduring that.

He’s startled when Jyn kisses him. It’s a kiss with little finesse but with an abundance of passion, a bold statement of desire. He hurries to snap out of this stupor, to respond with enthusiasm, to not risk her leaning away in shame of pushing him too hard. She grows gentler when she feels him reciprocate, but there’s an intent kind of hunger in her affection. She’s nowhere near done with her point when she pulls away from his lips. Without missing a beat, she lets her mouth trail a string of heated kisses down his jaw, his chin, giving his smooth skin all the attention in the galaxy. His pulse spikes up again, breath quick to come out in slightly desperate pants. It’s new ― having her soft lips and tongue lavish his skin without stubble or beard getting in the way whatsoever, and while he still prefers to have some facial hair, Jyn’s eagerness to kiss him as if he’s still himself even without that detail soothes some of the sting the transformation always leaves in its wake.

In any other circumstance Jyn would have sucked in a couple of marks into his neck, but she knows she can’t do this now. He still shivers, an insistent wave of desire rushing down chest straight to his throbbing erection, when she licks a brazen trail up his throat with the flat of her tongue and kisses him deep and head-spinning.

“How much time do we have before you have to get dressed?” she whispers against the corner of his mouth, her nails scraping lightly against the back of his neck and sending another wave of heat down the column of his spine.

It’s a bit tricky to evaluate the precise passing of time and do exact calculations when her other hand trails down his chest and his focus is somewhat reduced to the warm, still slightly-steamy air enveloping his body and Jyn with her passion and touch and taste of tea in her breath, but he manages. “Twenty minutes.”

She leans away a little, nods to herself, her tongue darting between the seam of her lips rather fervently. “Not ideal, but we’ll manage.”

True enough. He’ll be damned if they don’t, even if personally he prefers indulging in sex when they have much more spare time on their hands.

* * *

Maybe it’s nothing more than an ancient, primal instinct, but Cassian quite honestly doesn’t care ― his back doesn’t protest one bit to his utmost delight and it feels inherently prideful and arousing to carry Jyn to bed as she’s twined around his upper body, her lips roaming over his jaw and temple and neck in light, slightly distracting kisses.

She unwinds her legs from around his waist when he stops by their bed, settles gently on her knees upon the mattress before him, and smirks at him, her eyes ablaze with a sensual kind of mischief. Her hands are quick to roam down his chest to the towel at his hips, grab at it, and send it flying to land on his desk. She licks her lips again as she glances down appreciatively at his erection and, kriffing biting frosts, Cassian feels his cock twitch under her gaze only.

He had sex before Jyn. Not an abundance of it, sure, but he kind of thought he had experienced all of the basic essentials. _That_ , he has to rectify once more, flustered and baffled and feeling heat pool across his cheeks and his earlobes damningly, _had turned out to be one of the most erroneous assumptions I’ve ever made._

His fingers feel a little clumsy when he grabs the hem of his undershirt and drags it up Jyn’s body, but he gets her undressed swiftly. She wiggles both eyebrows knowingly and settles down on the bed, spreading her legs to let him see her in all her naked glory, absolutely shameless and sure of herself.

The chrono is counting down seconds until he will need to give up Cassian in favor of Imre with heartless, unbreakable stubbornness, and so he doesn’t waste a beat as he kneels between Jyn’s spread legs and lets his fingers roam up her thighs to her hipbones in a touch he knows she enjoys. A complex tangle of arousal and emotion is probably evident in his expression, for Jyn lifts one of her feet and gently pokes her toes against his side. “A credit for your thoughts?”

He strokes his hands back down to her knees, though this time he skims them much closer to her inner thighs. Leaning forward, he plants his elbows by the sides of her shoulders and rests his forehead against hers, feels her cradle his neck with one hand and his side with the other. Her legs bracket his hips tightly, needily. “I’m just glad you’re coaxing me to be myself for a little while more,” he whispers against her lips, the sincerity of this confession feeling like a treasure he wants to bottle up and never, ever forget.

She angles her face just right to kiss him, tender and loving, adds a slight hint of hunger at the very end as she scrapes her teeth against his tongue, and he decides that it’s time to make the most of this time they’re stealing so brashly from the war before he has to leave on the mission.

Jyn is patient and pliant as she lets him kiss his way down her neck to her breasts, wonderfully responsive as always to his fingers and tongue as he focuses his attention on her nipples. He grins when he feels her chuckle after he swirls the very tip of her tongue against the ticklish spots on her belly and sides, closes his eyes as another spike of arousal travels like a bright, hot flash of lightning through him when he inhales her scent. The taste of her on his tongue and the softness of her skin down there is something that always makes him slightly light-headed in the best of ways, his hunger for her coiling even tighter in spite of reaching his prize. The quiet sigh she makes the moment his lips brush against her folds, the gentle, secret-like moan he coaxes out of her by delving his tongue inside of her teasingly and locking his mouth against her clit the very next moment, the way her fingers tug at his hair reflexively, all of them are gifts he’s not sure he’ll ever get his fill of.

Any other day he would spend a lot of time between her thighs like this, drinking her in and not relenting until she shakes from pleasure at least once, but today she has none of it. Jyn tugs at his hair a bit more insistently than she usually does and wriggles away a little from the playful, yet intent heat of his mouth. “I want you, _now_ ,” she orders, most of the stardust in her eyes consumed by the darkness of pure lust, her chest heaving, a flush blossoming across the pale skin of her chest and neck and making the kyber crystal between her breasts somehow stand out even more.

He’d argue to indulge himself a bit more should they have more time on their hands, for he knows how much she enjoys the feeling of his mouth against her even when she’s impatient.

(He had made sure to learn when this kind of neediness is the part of the game and when Jyn is serious about it.

“I’ll simply tell you _no_ , okay?” she whispered when he asked about it, concerned and infinitely careful to never cross such a tender line, and to this day he’d never once heard her utter that word in bed to his relief and delight.)

Usually sliding a finger or two inside her sates her hunger for a little while, lets him unravel her before he’ll sink into her, but this time he listens obediently and slowly climbs up her body, lips hot and slick with her arousal as they slide across her heated skin. She gently nibbles at his bottom lip when he leans in for a kiss, eagerly licks her own taste out of his mouth, arching her hips to brush her wet folds against his cock and desperately trying to find the right angle to feel him inside at last.

Cassian settles one elbow more comfortably by her shoulder, sneaks his hand to support her neck, and slides his other down her hip, pressing her down against the mattress with a soft kind of insistence. “I got you, Jyn,” he whispers against her mouth and leans away slightly, just enough to freely stroke the side of her face with his fingers and to be able to see her clearly.

She nods shakily, lips red and parted, and the sight of her eyes rolling back, her hips and head arching to meet him together with a quiet whimper of desire she makes as he eases inside of her at last brings him just as much pleasure as the sensation of welcoming, velvety heat of her enveloping him tightly.

And then she smiles to him ― it’s an expression infinitely free and slightly wild and radiant in its happiness and sincerity ― and what follows suite like it always does when Jyn is with him this way is an almost physical feeling of every voice of fear and guilt flinching away and retreating to the farthest corner of his mind, every shadow of his sins temporarily dissipating and leaving him―

―wanted, normal, _clean_.

Because Jyn ― she knows more of him and about him than any other person in the galaxy, save for Kay, with many facts shared between them both only. Even Draven, while having access to his every mission report ― something that still safely conceals a number of certain sinful details of Cassian’s past from Jyn’s awareness ― doesn’t know his soul nowhere near as bared as she does. Because Jyn doesn’t mind that he comes with an unwieldy baggage of immense, dark set of issues, that he wakes most nights and mornings absolutely wrecked and haunted by his past, that he can be clumsy at figuring out relationships, that there’s not an inch of his hands that hasn’t been coated with blood and that he oftentimes sees it coating his skin even when it’s not really there. Because she lets him touch her without reservations, reaches out to him as if he is not a liar and spy and a killer. He can’t pretend he’s not all of those men, no, and she doesn’t either, not one bit. Having her accept all that harsh, undeniable truth and still want him ― it means everything to him.

And it feels like hope ― heady, bright, wild, and for the first time in long years it’s not only within reach but coursing through every breath, entwined snugly around his heart with what feels like a persistent, stubborn desire to never ever let go.

For a while his world is all Jyn ― the feeling of her around him, the need to let his mouth roam against her face and neck in gentle, if a little clumsy kisses, to twine his fingers around hers and hold on to her tight. He’s relishing in every ragged breath she makes and sigh she huffs through parted lips and quiet sound she’s letting free along with a filthier, slick noise of their bodies meeting each other in gentle throes of passion. It’s a world of desire and tenderness, of trust and devotion, of pleasure given and pleasure taken, and the simplicity and righteousness of it makes him wonder how could he live without it before, in a galaxy where colors didn’t scream so gently and brightly and seemed to somehow etch every jagged, broken piece of him together in all the right ways.

He hears himself moan, louder than he usually does, when Jyn’s fingers rake down the side of his spine as he thrusts harder into her. Thankfully, she doesn’t apologize this time for it, only does it again in tune with another roll of his hips. It isn’t painful, really ― her fingernails are always short and smooth enough not to truly hurt and draw blood ― but the feeling of sharp intensity accentuating that he feels so good to her that it makes her lose control, well, it does absolute wonders to his self-esteem and arousal.

Also, he had gathered from sweet experience that this means Jyn is getting closer to her release, so he doesn’t bother to hold back. Soon enough ― reasonably soon enough ― he’s close himself, and he tries to tell Jyn so, but she sears into his mouth with a kiss before he can utter a word and expertly topples him aside so that she ends up on top of him. He lands on his back with a quiet gasp echoing in the sweaty, heated atmosphere around them, brings his hands up to her hips and cants his legs up to give her thighs and lower back some support.

Jyn grins at him, fierce and exquisitely beautiful in this special passionate way, grabs one of his hands and guides it rather greedily to her clit. Her hips move quick and perfect against his, with just a hint of roughness she seems to like the most when she’s getting close, and blessedly it takes just a few firm strokes of his fingers against her clit for her to unravel around him and drag him under the heavy, bright storm of pleasure rolling down his body in trembling, perfect waves.

When the sharpest of ecstasy subsides and Jyn acquiesces that she’s sated, she makes herself comfortable against his chest, slumping forward rather heavily and clumsily. He doesn’t mind ― chuckles with gratification like a teenage fool who managed to please his girlfriend for the very first time when Jyn tucks her head under his chin and sighs, happy but somewhat exhausted. Even though the time is shorter than it’s ever been now before he’ll need to let Imre take over, Cassian rests one palm against Jyn’s hip, strokes his other leisurely up and down her bare back, presses his mouth to the crown of her head, and lets himself breathe in tune with her for a little while more, the aftershocks of her orgasm still pulsing around him from time to time and making him feel utterly, impossibly merry.

* * *

There’s one more reason why Imre’s cover constantly keeps Cassian on edge and tests his ability to survive under the Empire’s dark, disgusting wing.

Every undercover mission is risky, but having to reuse the same cover and reap the rewards from gathered intel puts a person beneath the mask one step closer to discovery. Willix has an impeccable document trail, yes, a testament to many risks taken by Cassian himself and other operatives to weave and keep spinning Imre’s story into the massive web of Imperial databases, and this is the primary reason the cover gets dragged up into the light of day from time to time.

But every mission in Imre’s skin leaves another trail to follow. A good hunter, a person with a keen eye for investigative work can sooner or later stumble upon this trail; every time Imre comes to life and serves a mission he is technically nothing less than a dead man walking. Cassian has no illusions about the matter ― if someone hunting him is smart, he won’t see his end coming. Draven knows this too ― he’s always reluctant to use this outrageous cover, but sometimes this is what the cause requires.

So Cassian does what he does best ― tries to keep his mind sharp and make the most of time he has in Imre’s skin for the good of the rebellion. It’s not easy, no, but then again he’s never walked this wretched path because it was easy. He walked it because it was the right thing to do. He walked it because someone had to. He walked it because somehow along the way he found that he managed to keep it together and not unravel completely under the pressure of duty, demands, and sins he had to commit, all for the sake of an elusive, but tenacious greater good.

* * *

This Imperial outpost he barges into under the guise of a security inspection sanctioned by the ISB is one of the smaller ones, the presence of military resources in it quite limited, enough only to guard this new data center of theirs. As far as available information goes, the planet it’s located on has welcomed the Empire with open arms; the population is quite comfortable with an occasional stormtrooper patrolling the streets, having never experienced the violence the Empire can bestow upon those who do not agree with it.

There was a number of cases where smugglers and shady merchants have lost their cargo in close proximity to the system; Jyn’s working theory is that the new Imperial squadron hunts in this area, working out the kinks of their recent formation into a combat unit and preparing to soon launch more daring attacks against the Alliance’s forces. Cassian tends to agree ― it’s a reasonable assumption, and virtually no insurgent presence in the sector should serve the enemy well to exercise in relative obscurity. Helping local smugglers get rid of their problem can also earn some much-needed resources for the Alliance and a pinch of questionable, but potentially useful loyalty too.

And if that’s not the case, well, it’s always useful to rummage through Imperial archives and learn more about the enemy with access to their rather close-guarded bureaucratic records. Who knows, the immense risk he’s taking by parading here in Imre’s skin here may yield dozens of new, important missions for Alliance agents if they’re lucky.

The days themselves are predictable in a somewhat soothing kind of way: Imre Willix is a stuck-up, pretentious asshole who masks that by cold professionalism and makes lives of simple Imperial data administrators miserable by an endless string of cutting, contemptuous critique. It’s kind of an earned critique ― their discipline is a mess, bureaucracy could use quite a lot of polishing ― and so it’s easy to keep them tense and afraid of him. No one really questions him, most people try to avoid looking at him if they can help it. He’s a terror in human flesh, and a terror with power and authority at that; it gives him an opportunity to review whatever he wants at their archives pretty much uninterrupted.

The process of reviewing data is tricky too: he must constantly be of two minds ― Imre hunting for any irregularity in the records to scold someone for it and Cassian to notice any pattern that might help him either clue in on the Imp squadron’s lair or find something else worth the Alliance’s attention. The amount of info he must sift through is immense ― that’s what you get when all the vital records from a damn sector of space end up dumped into a single storage point ― and more often than not he’s got a raging headache throbbing beneath his eyes and in his temples as if someone’s been playing ball inside of his skull by the time he has to leave the datacenter’s main building and retire to nearby quarters for visiting officers located on-premises.

His nights are―complicated.

First of all, he’s never been good at spending more than a bare necessary minimum amount of time sleeping in order to still be able to function properly while he’s on assignments like this one, and this time is no exception either. His every instinct is in knots, constantly waiting for something to go wrong, hyper-aware of what kind of a risk he’s taking, and he never learned how to counteract this feeling, only how to endure it and remain sane and able to keep going.

The very first night sleep outright eludes him for hours. Yes, it’s history repeating all over again, but this time his mind is also going through another process of adjustment. Because apparently somewhere along the way he got―

―yes, he got used to having Jyn in bed with him, to feel that sense of presence and warmth and safeness that she brings him. About a year ago, before Jedha and Eadu and Scarif and Jyn as his partner in the frontlines of this bloody war, he’d call himself a broken wreck of a spy for showing such an abhorrent weakness. Now, though, even if this is not ideal, he has very little doubt in his mind that Jyn, in fact, is a potent source of strength for him.

Cassian does fall asleep at last, exhausted into rest unceremoniously and tediously. He dreams of climbing the vault on Scarif through agony only to find Jyn’s lifeless body next to the lever. Killing Krennic with savage vengeance doesn’t ease the violent wave of pain tearing his soul from the inside out one bit. He wakes up quivering in cold sweat, heart leaping in his throat, his stomach roiling uncomfortably, and it takes longer than usual for his panic to subside because Jyn isn’t there to simply sleep beside him, her presence enough to melt away the echoes of his nightmares, or to wind her arms around him tightly, protectively like he’s worth that kind of possessive tenderness and kiss his sweat-matted temple as he tries to fine-tune his ragged breathing to the rhythm of hers and calm down.

Strangely enough, it’s the slight sting of his sweat slanting down the marks Jyn’s nails left upon his skin that soothes him. For most of his life even the faintest of hurts highlighted something bad happening to him; now this feeling reminds him that he’s not really alone, not anymore, even if he technically is at this particular moment in space and time.

He takes a quick trip to the ‘fresher, throws his undershirt into the sonic laundry tank to get it clean for the morning, takes a swift shower, drapes the loathed black ISB jacket over his bare skin, and sits down in the corner of his bed with a datapad to make himself useful and go through the files he had stealthily copied. If there are any cameras in the room, they certainly aren’t behind him. And if they record everything that’s happening inside, well, Imre Willix is a known workaholic with a dark past and tortured soul. He is, perhaps, the embodiment of the Empire that Sheev Palpatine would have loved: a man who had endured a no-small amount of hardship and pain to rise to his station and serve his Empire zealously.

* * *

Most of the Alliance-related digging Cassian does through the files concerns logistical records. Want to find a military force? ― Just look for the supply chains it requires to be sustained and follow their trails.

The first potential lead he sends Jyn, encrypting it within a message that looks like a glacially-professional chat with another ISB agent, doesn’t yield a result.

Second coordinates he shares with her and Kay end up torturing him with absence of response at the expected time of their handshake. A notification about a new incoming message on his datapad pops up while he’s busy reporting another set of outrageous mistakes the admins have done to the datacenter’s manager, and the tight knot of worry that was lodged like a razor doused with burning venom in his chest all throughout the day loosens at last and unravels fully when he reads the message back in his temporary quarters.

_sorry, had to wait out a chain of geomagnetic storms_ , Jyn explains in a more serious manner than she usually prefers to correspond in, and for the first time in hours he feels like he can breathe freely.

The third set of information he sends _Team Fulcrum Alpha_ seems potentially the most fruitful to him, and both his mind and intuition comes through. He gets a reply from Jyn in the early morning of his last day in the datacenter.

The message he decrypts is simple and so very Jyn.

_rogues and fulcrums are off to hunt for some traitorous x-wing asses._

_ps: kudos, cptn genius._

He’s aboard of the transport taking him back to the rendezvous point with the _Reckless_ when he receives another message.

_the space is dark and full of rogues._

_see u soon._

_missed u._

Imre Willix doesn’t smile ― it’s not an expression very familiar to those thin, tense, perpetually sour lips of his unless he wants to cut someone with it.

Cassian’s soul, though, is set alight with relief and joy in the kindest, gentlest of ways.

* * *

Jyn hauls him aside and lightly shoves him against the wall of the ship the moment he steps aboard of the _Reckless_. He barely has enough time to notice that she is wearing that undershirt of his again before she presses one hand against the control to seal the main door, grabs the neat collar of his black uniform with the other to drag him closer to her level, and steals his breath with a fierce, fiery kiss.

Normally it takes him more time to shed a cover and come back entirely into his own headspace, but this time the switch is near-immediate, his mind and body zeroing in on Jyn next to him, so close and so longing, the taste of her favorite berry tea on her lips and tongue and the feel of her mouth against his all but screaming _home_ so gently and banishing every other thought out of his brain. He is taken aback a little by this kind of swift, passionate enthusiasm from Jyn, mostly because this a bit of a shock to his system, but he responds eagerly the very next moment.

It may not make a whole lot of sense that this luxury somehow found its way into his life, but he’s not delusional enough to reject it.

(And it certainly helps that this mission didn't require him to resort to sabotage or assassinations, that right now his hands look free of blood to him.)

The walk back to their quarters is a blur of kisses and hands roaming under what are technically his clothes even though he’s not wearing one of the garments. Jyn ― clever, glorious Jyn ― breaks the kiss to breathe in some air, murmurs in reassurance to him because she knows just how much he craves to be up to date with any mission status, “The raid is a complete success, no losses on our side, the Imp aces are no more,” and captures his lips again with hers.

Dimly, somewhere at the back of his mind not currently focused on the heated dance their tongues are engaged in, Cassian thinks he hears Kay’s stomping steps closing in on them. “A reasonable way to cope with stress,” the droid declares clinically this time, seemingly satisfied that they’re moving in the direction of their quarters, and the sound of his steps gets more distant as he heads back towards the cockpit.

He and Jyn break the kiss in perfect unison to share a sheepish, sarcastic laugh, ride it out with their foreheads pressed together, and step into the bedroom at last after he manages to blindly, clumsily locate the lock panel upon the wall next to the door.

Once they’re inside, Jyn holds back from kissing him and pounces to strip him out of this wretched ISB uniform as if it’s nothing short of a plague, kicks the garments with her foot beneath his desk unceremoniously, makes very quick and admirably agile work of dragging his boxer briefs down his legs, throws them within close reach across the shelf behind him, and gently shoves him back with both palms pressing against his chest until he sits down upon the bed.

Her hands come resting by the sides of his face and he’s greeted with the piercing, needy gaze of her eyes, looking at him as if he’s the center of her entire universe and she wants nothing more than to be with him. “Do you want this now?” she asks seriously, as if his obviously-hardening cock she couldn’t have possibly missed while she just undressed him isn’t proof enough.

But, that’s the catch ― it’s not enough. What his body wants is one thing, and that can just be a reaction to stimulation that has nothing to do with a mind wants and consents to. He doesn’t quite know yet how to tell her why he always treats the topic with such care and why he’s beyond grateful that she mirrors it back at him ― storms, a mere idea of laying that truth bare before anyone still feels quite terrifying to him ― but he knows what he needs to say now and what she needs to hear. 

“Oh, I do,” Cassian states and sneaks a hand beneath his undershirt to confirm that Jyn is totally naked again and already quite wet against his fingertips. “Before you proceed, though,” he murmurs and tilts his head to kiss the hollow between her collarbones, brings two wet fingers against her clit to stroke her in light, teasing circles, “I want to feel you come around fingers. So what, we have a deal, Erso?”

“I believe that we do,” she agrees and tugs at his hair until he angles his head to let her comfortably kiss his lips and neck alike like she wants, now surprisingly eager not to distract him too much from his sweet objective.

A week without sensual attention has left her wanton and hungry for release ― he files it into an ever-growing list of interesting facts about Jyn that he dutifully, eagerly keeps in his mind ― and it takes him just a few minutes until she’s trembling around two of his fingers crooked deep inside her and his other thumb prolonging the waves of her orgasm until it eases into a second set of pulsing pleasure that makes her body quake uncontrollably and beckons her to stifle a keen moan. 

Cassian eases his fingers out of her gently and drags Jyn into his lap when he feels her legs giving out a little, kisses her temple and jaw and the corner of her mouth, loving the way she twines her arms around him and settles down upon his thighs, pressed warm and wet against him just perfectly to enjoy the simple feeling of this heated intimacy.

This, though, isn’t the most satisfied and pleasantly wrecked an orgasm can make her, and Jyn is quick to recover and demand initiative back. He gives it up without reservations, scoots back right where she wants him, spreads his legs and tries his best to relax and think of something boring in order for this to drag out a bit longer.

Which, hey, it isn’t the easiest of feats in the galaxy when Jyn is looking at him as if she’s about to devour him and drag him headlong a haze of mind-numbing pleasure. Storms know she’s more than capable and more than happy to do that.

She can be both torturously patient and kind with her affection if she puts her mind to it ― and she seems to love that just as much as he does ― but she’s still in a mood for a more efficient sex. She’s leaving a trail of kisses down his body and this time her hand is quick to wrap around his length. The combination of sensations brings him close soon, but apparently he had severely underestimated Jyn’s desire to make this feel especially good for him today.

She eases the strokes of her hand around him from zeroed-in to bring him to a sweet, golden kind of end to teasing instead, stretches out her body by the side of his, and idly brushes her fingertips through the sweat-matted locks upon his forehead.

“Cassian,” Jyn whispers into his ear and his hips arch up into her hand involuntarily. Storms, who could have thought that his damn name can sound like this, like a teasing, perfect prayer? And it doesn’t help whatsoever that the sound of her laughter is all joy and sexual gratification in the wickedest, sweetest of ways. “I don’t want you to think, just feel what I’m going to do to you. Can you be so kind?”

A string of mental images that fiery challenge unravels makes him somewhat indisposed to form coherent words, yet alone sentences, but he must have mumbled some kind of an approval in a shaky, absolutely wrecked voice for Jyn puts her mouth on him a breath or so later.

He does exactly what she wants him to.

That earns him a plunge into an incredible plane of pure, concentrated desire in which Jyn brings him to the very brink of pleasure and pulls back the moment he feels he’s about to unravel at last.

When she ultimately lets that sweet wave take him under, his world whites out as thick, heavy currents of bliss course through his every vein and muscle in a way that makes him feel exquisitely, incredibly alive in a softly-violent kind of way.

Who would have thought that a little death can be so dazzling?

* * *

In spite of tiredness that burrowed its way seemingly into the very marrow of his bones throughout that miserable week he’d spent undercover, Cassian’s awareness floats back into focus when his stomach traitorously growls and directs his attention to a mild feeling of hunger instead of letting him sleep his exhaustion and post-orgasm haze off.

Jyn chuckles, kisses his sternum as she strokes his side, and rises up at last from where she made herself very comfortable next to him. “Come on: first a trip to the ‘fresher, second some food, and then we can rest.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he replies lazily and lets Jyn gently drag him out of bed by tugging at his hand.

Sharing a shower this time turns out to be a perfectly efficient endeavor. Cassian is the first to enter the main hold, heading for the kitchen space out of habit to see what they have stocked up in the fridge, only to be lightly swayed away from his trajectory by Jyn jostling his hip with her side in a playful manner.

“Everything’s ready, no need to help. It’s my treat today.”

Cassian regards her, thoughtful, as he settles upon the seats by the table, stretching out his legs and resting his back against the wall. Jyn’s treat normally means that she has either heated up some leftovers he had cooked earlier or bought some takeout food at the spaceport, but the way she says those words is suspiciously a little rushed, a tell-tale sign that something is making her nervous. 

She flicks on their electric kettle to heat up some water, recovers a paper bag with instant grainy porridge they often use as a side dish to meat, then opens the fridge in search of something. In the same moment Kay barges into the main hold from the cockpit. Jyn freezes in place, the fridge’s door open and one of her hands clearly touching something within it, and turns her head in Kay’s direction speedily.

Given how she lifts the index finger of her free hand in warning, she’s definitely glaring at the droid. “Utter a word and I’ll punch you,” Jyn promises a tad darkly.

Kay regards her with a flat stare. “You can. It’ll be fun for me,” he states insolently. “But then again, will a couple of broken bones be worth that?”

Before their bickering can deteriorate down to insults that promise to be slightly harsher than their usual competition in sarcasm and saltiness, Cassian smiles, gathering the rest of info he needs from the context of the conversation, rises up, and comes close to Jyn. Looping an arm around her shoulders, he buries his nose into her hair and presses a soft kiss to the back of her head.

Jyn is, Cassian had learned, a more nurturing person than even he could have ever suspected. But she’s not exactly used to revealing this side of her to other people, not fully yet, and she’s still figuring out the kinks in it. She can be a little self-conscious about this from time to time, defensive even, in certain regards. He, on the other hand, is unused to receiving care from others. What a pair they make, insecurities aligning so seamlessly.

So he keeps the tone of his voice soft as he murmurs appreciatively, “Did you cook for me, Jyn Erso?”

She sighs against him, undoubtedly gearing up to respond, but Kay beats her to it. “She did. And she has done a very commendable job, given what I have witnessed,” the droid declares his approval.

Jyn retrieves a bowl from the fridge, nudges it closed with her foot. Placing the transparent glass container next to the porridge, she leans the back of her head against Cassian’s shoulder and side-eyes Kay. “Is that a compliment I spy, Tin Can?”

“A simple statement of a fact,” shoots back Kay flatly, unwilling to budge. 

“A _compliment_ ,” Jyn insists, her voice warming up now that she feels more sure of herself, and prepares her and Cassian two portions of the porridge by seeping small rations of grain into plates and pouring some hot water over them.

“Your delusions, Tiny Entropy, are neither my problem nor relevant to this conversation,” concludes the droid and settles down upon the old couch in the main hold with a datapad in his hands.

Jyn snorts. “Whatever scratches your itch, Pompous Ass.”

Cassian shakes his head and smiles to himself, cause seriously, this is like the last year of kindergarten all over again, only bickering and insults had gotten more creative and less clumsy, and this time it somehow seems even more fun. Maybe it’s cause this foolishness is exercised by a fierce rebel girl and a big bad foul-mouthed security droid. Maybe it’s cause he’s a little mad.

Whatever is the real truth behind this, he’d rather not have it any other way. 

Back at the table Jyn’s gaze is a little guarded again when she looks at him, waiting for him to try his dinner. She cooked some minced meat they had saved up in the freezer with a sesha berry sauce that goes perfect with it. It’s one of the quickest, easiest meals from meat that Cassian usually prepares for them, but it doesn’t matter to him one bit. Whereas cooking makes him feel in his element, the easy routine and predictable results of following instructions serving as a nice change from chaos and complexity of his rebel life, Jyn is not a fan of the process. It seems to bore her, sometimes even needlessly frustrate her. The fact that she had willingly spent her time this way only shows how much she cares for him.

She didn’t have to do this, no. There’s a part of him that feels guilty that she felt the need to do something for him that she’d not rather engage in otherwise. But this is her choice. And he, despite the complicated tangle of feelings such kind of generosity causes when it’s directed his way, is sincerely grateful for it.

Cassian brings the spoon to his mouth, savors the familiar taste on his tongue. She’d gotten the ratio between sauce and water just perfect when she fried the meat, added the exact same pinch of spices he usually puts into it for additional flavor.

“It’s a real treat,” he reassures her, grinning at her as he licks the sauce off his lips. “I couldn’t have possibly asked for a better homecoming,” he adds, and he really, really means it.

He sees it when Jyn’s shoulders relax as if an invisible burden leaves them free at last. She strokes her hand against his shins in an idle, comforting gesture, reflexively hides relief in her eyes while she’s at it by pointedly looking down at his legs that rest in her lap, and reaches out for her portion of the dinner with a small smile tugging the corners of her mouth up.

That smile is a treasure, as far as he’s concerned.

* * *

The memories of Jyn’s intimate closeness to him are a little―not aggravating, not uncomfortable, but they’re somewhat conflicting. Cassian opens his eyes, glances at her still asleep by his side, and then directs a slightly reproachful, bashful look down his navel where he’s been very acutely sensing a very peculiar part of him getting turned on _again_.

It’s been what, barely eleven hours since he last trembled mindlessly from the sensation of her mouth around him?

This isn’t how arousal normally worked for him. For most of his life it had solely been a reaction of his body, detached from emotion, a physical need he took care of all by himself and moved on. To be honest, he didn’t even think of finding someone to scratch this itch with until a long undercover assignment wrung him dry and made him feel lonely, teetering on the edge of breaking. The girl he first been intimate with, she was a spy like him too. Some two years older, slightly more experienced in the area of sex, Elvie was just as miserable undercover and wanted company of someone she could trust, and this was when a slightly deeper emotional connection he felt to a person than it normally went for him coincided with the need to be himself if only for a little while and basic curiosity about how this will feel with a partner. After all, learning something so mundane if it was safe and consensual couldn’t hurt either. It was practical, he concluded, and embarked on a journey of exploration.

And that was how it went ― they’ve met from time to time to have sex even after their respective missions on Coruscant were over, it was nothing more than two lonely people occasionally seeking out warmth and release, no special strings attached to it. Elvie met someone she wanted to share a life with at some point, to have a proper relationship, and that was it, no drama and no regrets left in the wake of their physical tryst. Afterwards he lived for years without sharing physical intimacy with someone and quite honestly didn't mind one bit.

But life with Jyn is a head-spinning plunge from casual friendship into the world of sexual desire both physical and emotional of a magnitude he’d never experienced before. It’s good, it works seamlessly, it feels amazing to both his mind and body in impeccable unison, and Cassian just―

―wants more, yes, and there doesn’t seem to be a limit to satiation nowhere near in sight. Every time she kisses him is as thrilling as the very first time he’s ever felt her lips meet his at long-awaited last. It doesn’t get old one bit. And Jyn herself, she mirrors his desire perfectly. She’s yearning, hungry for it. She seems to genuinely love having sex, and he’s pretty sure she won’t suddenly start denying him left and right if he’ll be mustering up courage to ask for this kind of intimacy more often instead of waiting until she takes initiative in her own hands.

It’s a splendid disposition, although still stubbornly precarious in an odd way that makes him blush like a karking teenager. He’s a mess, isn’t he?

He’s wrenched out of his ruminations by Jyn rousing from her sleep at last. Given that Cassian is usually the one to wake up first, at this point he had more than enough opportunities to observe how their relationship affects Jyn’s habits and sense of comfort. When they first moved in together, she oftentimes used to snap into awareness swiftly, her eyes taking in her surroundings with a survivor’s fierce need to assess everything and evaluate whether or not she was still safe. It keeps happening from time to time, for instincts like this die hard, but in the safety of secure quarters aboard rebel ships and this vessel in particular Jyn wakes up in a softer kind of way with an ever-increasing frequency.

Today she returns to wakefulness lazily, slow to stretch out her body thoroughly and sigh contentedly against his side. She settles still then, definitely assessing whether or not he’s asleep by focusing on the way he’s breathing, swaps her arms to free one and sneak the other underneath the pillow, and turns on her other side, a languid smile quirking the corners of her mouth up. Her gaze is adorably sleepy.

“Morning, genius,” Jyn murmurs, her lips tracing a sequence of absent-minded kisses down the edge of his bare shoulder.

“A late afternoon, actually,” Cassian amends and gently winds an arm around her, letting her snuggle up even closer and rest her head on his shoulder.

She shoots him a playful look, draws a string of nonsensical symbols across his sternum with the tip of her index finger. “How come you’re still here, then?”

He huffs a chuckle through his nose, angles his head to kiss her temple. “The company’s not half-bad,” he explains, wry in a silken kind of way.

“Is that so?” Jyn’s tone is husky around this inquiry, and it sends another wave of arousal pooling low in his belly, for he knows this particular enunciation and what it often brings in tow with it. Somehow he’s still not prepared for just how torturously-sweet it would feel to have her drape a leg over his thighs and slowly slide it up until her knee brushes gently against his sensitive erection. “Okay, I see, true enough,” she whispers against his neck, a damn gorgeous she-devil. “Any specific ideas as to what can we do about this?”

Cassian glances down at her, stroking an undemanding, casual caress down her arm. “You don’t have to do anything,” he tells her because that’s the truth, because it can’t be all perfect all the time and one day they will end up on different wavelengths about it. In matters like this it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Jyn is quick to extricate herself out of his embrace only to settle down upon his thighs, mercifully a bit away from his groin. “I appreciate the thought, but not the selflessness taken to ridiculous extremes,” she declares, holding his gaze. “So, if you’re game, I might be persuaded to leave this bed after three orgasms,” Jyn delivers a fiery challenge with a glint in her eyes, swiftly frees herself out of his undershirt, and sends it flying down the floor carelessly, now wearing nothing more than her kyber necklace glistening enticingly between her breasts in the soft shadows of their room.

It takes Cassian a lot of self-restraint in order not to groan out loud at this bold statement of intent. “Well, I did treat you with two yesterday―eh, earlier today,” he rectifies as he tries to keep up with her. “Three seems like a natural progression, all right. How about four, though?”

Jyn lifts her hips up just enough to let him to drag the bedsheet out of the way and toss it aside, then shifts forward to hover over him, her forearms planted by the sides of his face. “That’s my kind of a bargain,” she states approvingly and leans down to kiss him.

* * *

They end up not getting out of bed for another two hours. Cassian is keeping the score perhaps a tad selfishly, but whatever, there are little to no things in the galaxy lovelier and more ravishing to him than having Jyn unravel with pleasure that he brings her time and time again.

First time she comes with his mouth only upon her, second time it’s when he moves slow and leisurely inside her as he spoons her from behind, his fingers free to rub tight or teasing circles on her clit and driving her out of her mind, the soft sounds of pleasure she’s making forging one of the best melodies he’s ever heard in his life.

They take a break after that, during which she makes him read aloud a few long chapters of a surprisingly entertaining spy novel, and at the point where sexual tension between the two protagonists reaches its unresolved peak as they impersonate a couple, a trope of all tropes, Jyn snatches the datapad away, rests it back upon the shelf, makes herself comfortable in his lap and chases her release with passionate enthusiasm that he’s totally there for. Her fourth orgasm is a beast a little trickier to coax, but he manages, his fingers stroking deep inside her just right and his mouth patient and light against her sensitive clit.

Afterwards, she opts to soak lazily in the ‘fresher for a little while more, and Cassian, even though his limbs feel somewhat heavy with residual ecstasy and his mind is a tad sluggish, heads towards the kitchen to whip up a quick meal for them both.

* * *

His eyebrows arch a little customarily when he spots Kay in the main hold of the _Reckless_. He’ll probably never stop being surprised with just how many organic habits his droid friend imprints upon. Currently Kay is lounging upon the couch, his head propped up upon the armrest, long legs awkwardly bent and balancing against the other with his metal feet touching the floor. Kay’s personal datapad ― the thing he carries around not because he needs it, but simply because he likes having it as a toy because he can ― rests upon the back of the couch.

“So,” Cassian mentions casually, managing to peek into the fridge to take inventory of what’s currently stored there this time, “how’s life?”

“Splendid,” replies Kay in his trademark bland tone. “Playing an online sabacc tournament with Rook in a separate process. Our pilot friend had apparently decided to win a competition that’ll soon due to start between rebel pilots and wants some practice. It seems that he actually does have a solid chance to accomplish this goal,” the droid informs, pauses for a moment, and switches the topic. “Also, I have decimated three Imperial-affiliated X-wings aboard of this ship during the last skirmish. It is more than anyone scored in the Rogue Squadron.”

It isn’t something that the Alliance would ever consider doing, no. The wounds left behind by the Clone Wars and overall mistrust a lot of people generally have for droids won’t allow it. But it’s a nice fantasy. “Oh, so you want to be a pilot now, then? Establish and lead a squadron of droid rebels?” asks Cassian.

The sound Kay utters closely resembles a derisive scoff. “And deprive myself of the chance to follow your sorry escapades closely? Not going to happen. You are far too problematic and entertaining and tolerable organic being to take a pass on that.”

The emotion that statement wrenches out of him is a potent thing. Cassian draws in a deep breath, feeling the way his heart somersaults just like it did the very first time Kay ever declared that he’ll be willing to help him out. “Kay?”

“Yes?”

He swallows, closes the fridge behind him after retrieving a few eggs out of it. “Thanks for being a loyal thorn in my backside.”

“There is a sixty-three percent chance you are going to regret stating this in the next twenty-four hours,” the droid notifies him, clinical and definitely trying to be helpful.

A chuckle unfurls in his chest and throat with a wave of warmth enveloping his very soul. “You’re not wrong,” Cassian admits. “I bet that chance climbs as high as to ninety-two percent or something should you make that your mission.”

“That is quite accurate,” commends Kay.

“Well, perhaps that’s just―”

“―our thing?” finishes his friend for Cassian.

He smiles and closes his eyes.

His life is all kinds of things: horrible and exhausting, hopeful and odd, and many more other emotions around and in between those definitions with various degrees of complexity. Unlikely and absurd as it is, though, these days he loves it with a protective kind of fierceness. Loves it the way he never quite valued it before.

It occurs to him that perhaps, he’s finding himself truly living after spending long years in bare survival mode only.

“Yeah, Kay,” echoes Cassian. “Totally our thing.”

* * *

_«Do you feel a change coming on_

_Rolling out of the blue like a storm_

_And it's throwing your dollhouse world in disarray_

_So you can rebuild or conform_

_How I wish you'd only see_

_How your own choices make your dream_

_Come out shining true before it can leave you_

_I wish that you could see_

_How your own choices make your dream_

_Come out shining true all around you_ »

**×××**

_«My worth is the look in your eyes_

_My prize the smile playing tricks on your lips_

_And I wonder again_

_Do you ever dream of the world like I do_

_I too fear the change coming on_

_Rolling out of the blue like a storm_

_Can you hear it scream_

_At the hurt that I knew_ »

― Poets of The Fall, “Change”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! *wiping forehead gesture*
> 
> So, this wasn't planned whatsoever. But I was walking to the office one gloomy morning a couple of weeks back, mulling over the next chapter of another story of this series, and instead my brain zeroed in on a plot bunny from Cassian's POV. It had stuck in my head so much so that it has gotten somewhat tricky to focus on the ongoing story, this kept expanding more and more with details and clear plot, and last weekend I just resigned myself to getting this out of my system. 
> 
> I have taken a liberty of changing Cassian's canon backstory a little. While in canon his father perished on Carida, I wanted such a drastic turn in Cassian's life to hit even closer to home for the sake of character development and establishing why he fights so fiercely for freedom.
> 
> A [hallikset](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Seven-string_hallikset) is a string instrument introduced by Jedi: Fallen Order in this beautiful [cut scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9hdvZoocpjk).
> 
> Title comes from the song presented at the end of the story. :)
> 
> Various trivia:  
> [Anooba](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Anooba/Legends)  
> [Nerf](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Nerf)  
> [Skimboard](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Skimboard/Legends)  
> [Lira San](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lira_San)  
> [Vornskr](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Vornskr)
> 
> Any typos or mistakes are all mine.


End file.
